


We Try to Hide From Yesterday

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gen, Organized Crime, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thought it was all over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Try to Hide From Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Post-canon organised crime universe. I've modernized some of the names (Margaery to Margery, Robb to Robert—Rob for short, obviously), but not all of them.

She thought it was all over.

 

Now that her family—what was left of it, anyway—was back together and she had a good job and a nice apartment and a girlfriend, she thought she could leave it all behind. She thought she could move on.

 

And most of the time, she could. She would go to work, come home, maybe go out with Margery, eat dinner and go to bed. She didn’t have much in the way of friends, not these days, but she had Jon and Arya and Bran.

 

She still dreamed about her old life. Usually it was her father’s execution (even now, the sound of gunfire—or even anything that sounded like gunfire—set her on edge), or images pieced together from the police report about the massacre at Rob’s wedding. She had once been woken just after midnight by Margery, who told Sansa that _she_ had been woken by her thrashing about and talking in her sleep.

 

“You were crying, too,” Margie had said, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing Sansa’s sweat-damp hair back from her face. “I thought you were having a seizure or something.”

 

Sansa had said nothing, simply finished the glass of water Margery had fetched her.

 

Deep down, she knew that it would never really be over. She knew that she could live to be a hundred years old, and she would still dream of being fifteen again, standing in a freezing multi-storey car park, reliving her father’s execution at the hands of the boy she had once dreamed of marrying.

 

No, it would never be over. Not really.


End file.
